


Crazy He Calls Me

by togetherboth



Series: Autumn in New York [3]
Category: Martin and Lewis (RPF)
Genre: 1940s, Affection, All of the Unresolved Tensions, Canon Divergent, Hurt/Comfort, Love, M/M, New York City, New York Gay Clubs of the 1940s, Pining, Roommates, Sharing a Bed, Unresolved Emotional Tension, Unresolved Romantic Tension, Unresolved Sexual Tension, drag kings, oh my god they were roommates
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-09-25
Updated: 2019-12-06
Packaged: 2020-10-28 07:30:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,604
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20774831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/togetherboth/pseuds/togetherboth
Summary: Dean’s still sound asleep, all curled up as usual and looking like contentment itself. Moving as softly as he can Jerry settles back into his own still-warm place next to him, adjusting the pillows a little so that he’s propped up against the creaky brass headboard.





	1. Trophy bruises

**Author's Note:**

> Follows on directly from the events of _Speak Low_.

Jerry’s in their tiny bathroom brushing his teeth when he notices the bruise. Well, bruises really. Frowning, he holds his left arm up to the mirror to get a better look. There’s one big bruise that’s radiating out from the point of his elbow, then a smaller one creeping up from the bony spur on the outside of his wrist. Both are spreading along his forearm like they’re reaching out for each other. He rinses his mouth and puts his toothbrush back on the little shelf, then prods his arm gently with wet fingers. Ow. Yep, hurts.

The bruise on his wrist is fainter than the one on his elbow, so he can still see the outline of the watch Dean drew. He’s glad about that. Funny how it didn’t hurt at all while Dean was drawing it. But then, Jerry guesses he was probably still full of adrenaline from the show. And Dean was very careful, had only touched him softly.

He wonders if Dean’s awake yet; he wants to show off the bruise to him, like a trophy. It’s three in the afternoon, they’ve slept and now there’s a few hours to kill until they’re due back on stage. Maybe they’ll go get something to eat, see who else is around. Maybe they’ll go to the Park by themselves. 

He opens the bathroom door as quietly as he can and peeks out into the bedroom. There’s a threadbare towel hung at the window; they pinned it up under the thin drapes a few mornings ago in hope of keeping the daylight out, but the afternoon sun is still fighting through and the room is only semi-dark. As his eyes adjust from the harsh electric light of the bathroom he can easily make out the Dean-shaped lump in the middle of the mattress. Jerry goes over to the side of the bed and looks down at his partner.

If you’d asked him a few months ago, before they’d ever shared digs, to guess how Dean would look asleep he’d probably have said pretty manly and cool, same as he looks when he’s awake. Jerry would’ve conjured up a picture of him sleeping flat on his back, fingers interlaced behind his head and probably a Lucky in his mouth ready for morning. Something like that. 

But no. Stop the press, hold the front page, Jerry has an exclusive to share: Dino Crocetti sleeps like an absolute nitwit. Like a six-year-old child. He lies on his side facing the middle of the bed and he curls up like a little kid, pulls his elbows and knees in and snuggles his face into the pillow. _Snuggles_, for god’s sake. Dean sleeping is about the goofiest thing he’s ever seen. And unbelievably fucking cute. Jerry kind of wants to buy him a teddy bear.

Personally, Jerry thinks sleep is nothing more than an inconvenience. It’s an unwanted annoyance that happens to him without his permission when his body’s just too beat to stay upright any longer. Dean’s point of view is very different. Jerry knows that for Dean, sleep is a wonderful event that he looks forward to and is an active participant in. He climbs into bed and lies there smiling for a few minutes, looking drowsy-eyed at Jerry like something lovely is happening to him. Dean just absolutely adores sleeping. 

He’s still sound asleep now, all curled up as usual and looking like contentment itself. Moving as softly as he can Jerry settles back into his own still-warm place next to him, adjusting the pillows a little so that he’s propped up against the creaky brass headboard, Dean’s head by his hip. Tucking his cold feet under the covers and crossing one ankle over the other, he looks down at his partner and thinks about how peaceful he looks.

The only problem with all this cuteness is that it makes it so goddamned difficult when you’re the one who has to wake him up. Jerry’s not made of stone, he can barely bring himself to do it. He generally tends to get through by overcompensating, waking Dean up much more explosively than he really needs to.

One time, he woke Dean up by taking the longest run-up their tiny room would allow and just flinging himself on top of him, which nearly broke the bed. He was pretty proud of that one. He’s woken him up by tickling him. He’s woken him up by singing a nonsense morning song of his own invention at the top of his lungs. Once, when he was in a especially pigtail-pulling mood, he woke him up by dumping an entire pitcher of icy tap water all over him. He’s only done that one time though, because it only takes one time to realise that drenching someone’s bed is less funny when their bed is also your bed.

He’s not really in the mood for any of those boisterous things today though. Because his arm aches, and he’s still kind of tired, and in the very early hours of this morning on a bench in Central Park Dean kissed the veins on the inside of his left wrist. He still hasn’t fully come to terms with that one.

He takes another look at his bruised arm and prods it again to make sure it still hurts. It does. He returns his gaze to Dean, sighs, thinks ‘fuck it’ and gently pushes his fingers into his hair. He begins at the crown, just gently swirling his fingertips. A stray curl loops itself around his index finger, so he coaxes it straight, lets it go, and starts again. He keeps going methodically across the top of Dean’s head, alternating swirls and gentle tugs, taking his time. He’s just working his way down to scritch his nails into the shorter hair at the nape of his neck when Dean hums and sleepily says,

“How much for a shampoo and set, Mr Loomis?”

“More’n you can afford, buddy.”

“That’s a pity,” Dean sighs, burrowing his face further into the pillow without dislodging Jerry’s hand. “I got this partner with a thing for my hair. Wanted to look pretty for him, is all.”

“He does not have a thing for your hair. In fact, he’s embarrassed to be seen out with you, what with this curly mop. How do you like that, huh?”

Dean just smiles and mutters something in Italian that Jerry suspects is probably rude. He still hasn’t opened his eyes, so Jerry puts his whole hand back into his hair and tugs gently.

“Dean? Hey, Dean. Dino. Paul. Look at this.” Dean wearily opens his eyes.

“Don’t ask me to look at things before I’ve had coffee, kid. You know me better than that by now.”

“N’aw, it’s good, I promise. You’ll be okay. Look, I got a war wound.”

Dean scrubs his hand over his face and hoists himself up onto one elbow, getting a better look at the arm Jerry’s thrusting towards him.

“Jesus Christ, Jer,” he says, abruptly much more awake. “You got a funny definition of ‘good’. That looks like it hurts.”

He sits up completely and carefully takes ahold of Jerry’s forearm, turning it a little to see the full extent of the bruising. It looks even darker in the dim light of the bedroom, and even though he’s still kind of proud of it Jerry has to admit that it really is starting to ache.

“It’s okay, it’s just from that pratfall. Oh. Your hair looks ridiculous.”

“I’m not worried about my hair, I’m worried about your arm.”

Dean’s hair does look ridiculous. It’s all rumpled from Jerry’s fingers and it’s sticking out all over the place. He reaches out with the hand Dean isn’t holding and starts smoothing it down. Dean darts a look at him.

“Stop trying to distract me. We need to do something about this.”

Jerry suddenly feels embarrassed. He’d wanted Dean’s attention (who’s he kidding, he always wants Dean’s attention), but now that he has it, his pride in his ‘war wound’ is withering under the weight of Dean’s concern. He hadn’t meant to actually worry him. He lets his hand fall away from his partner’s head, feeling a bit defensive. He halfheartedly tries to pull his other arm away too, but Dean grips his hand a little tighter and won’t let him. 

“What’s to do about it? A bruise is a bruise, it’ll go away on its own.”

“But doesn’t it hurt?”

“Well sure it hurts. What does that matter?”

“What does it _matter_?”

Dean’s looking right into Jerry’s eyes now, his thumb gently brushing back and forth over the watch inked around his wrist. He’s got this strange look on his face. It’s a lot like disbelief, only much sadder. Jerry can’t parse it, and he’s usually good at expressions. They’re kind of his job.

“Jer….” Dean stops himself, then sighs. “Look, just…hmm. Wait.” Apparently struck by a flash of inspiration he’s suddenly on the move, rolling out of bed and striding over to the chair where he left last night’s clothes. He starts hauling them on over the underwear he slept in. “Wait here. I’ll be back before you can miss me.’

“What? No, I’ll come with you.” Jerry kicks the covers away and swings his legs over the edge of the bed, ready to follow. “I been getting ready to go out while you were dead to the world still, and anyway….” Dean stops dead in his tracks, points right at him and says firmly,

“Wait. Here.”

Reluctantly Jerry, for once, does as he’s told. Dean’s got his jacket on now, billfold from the dresser top grabbed and shoved in his pocket. His shoelaces are undone and his shirt cuffs are sticking out longer than his jacket sleeves, and he should look silly but because it’s Dean he somehow just looks romantically debauched instead. He yanks the door to the hallway open, pauses halfway through and looks back at Jerry sitting bewildered on the edge of the bed, looking unusually small. Jerry inhales to speak…

“Ah! Shh. Stay.”

“But, Paul!” The door slams. Too late. Jerry puts on his best petulant face. “Your hair still looks ridiculous,” he says sulkily, to an audience of none.


	2. So far gone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean usually needs a cup of coffee and at least two cigarettes to feel this awake.

There are eight flights of stairs down from their room at the Bryant Hotel to the street and Dean runs down every single one of them, feeling like Errol Flynn as he swings around each return. He dashes past Ernie the doorman with a quick salute and bursts out of the foyer into the low afternoon sunshine. 

Broadway is crowded as ever, but he weaves his way smoothly down to the subway on 49th, clatters down the steps and hops onboard a downtown train. He’s on a mission, and his sense of purpose is making up for the fact that he usually needs a cup of coffee and at least two cigarettes to feel this awake. 

As the train starts to move he hangs onto one of the chrome poles and sways easily with the rattle of the tracks, thinking about his destination and hoping his pal will be there. He just knows Billy will be able to help. Idly studying the reflections of his fellow travellers in the train's dark windows, he gets a minor shock when he catches an eyeful of himself. Dishevelled ain’t even the half of it. He swiftly tucks his shirt in, kneels down and ties his shoelaces.

His shirt cuffs are flapping annoyingly over his hands but he was in such a rush to get going that he forgot to grab any cufflinks to hold them back. Patting his pockets, he wonders if there’s anything among the accumulated bits and pieces that he can improvise with. Still tucked safely in his top pocket he finds the single cufflink he’d taken from Jerry that morning in the Park.

Holding it carefully between his thumb and index finger he turns it so it gleams in the electric light; the top is a wafer thin disc of gold, a bit scratched and cheap-looking really, but it seems well-loved and is elegantly engraved in the centre with a curving J. It looks like something that could be precious to the kid, and he vows to himself that he’ll take good care of it until he can hand it back.

The cufflink reminds him of the early hours of that morning, when he’d slipped it from its buttonholes and released the cuff from Jer’s skinny wrist, easing the fabric of his shirtsleeve back from his forearm and feeling apologetic for exposing that much skin to the morning chill. He remembers what he did next. Jesus Christ, Dino, he thinks. Talk about showing your hand.

It had worked wonders for the kid though, made him happy again when he’d been so miserable over the broken watch. Made Dean feel like king of the world just being able to do that for him. He thinks of those glittering hazel eyes looking up at him like he’d just hung the moon. ‘It’s the most beautiful watch I ever saw,’ he’d said, then broken into a smile that lit up half the goddamned Park. Dean swears to God that if Jer’d been a girl he would’ve got down on one knee right then and there. He’d damn near done it anyway, had to shut up for a while till the impulse faded. He is so, so far gone on this boy. And the strangest thing is that he is absolutely fine with it. Perfectly comfortable. It feels _so_ right that even if he goes searching for anxious feelings, he doesn’t seem to be able to find any.

The train jolts him out of his reverie. Hoping he’s not too flushed, he tries to turn his thoughts away from his partner and back to his surroundings. He fixes his cuff in place with the link, then rolls the other sleeve back a few times to keep it out of the way. Starting to feel a bit more presentable, he turns his attention to his hair, which is still hopelessly mussed from Jerry’s fingers. He smooths it down and in doing so catches the reflection of a girl in a green coat looking at him in the darkened glass. 

He smiles softly at her reflection and she bashfully looks away. He feels a version of himself split off and go over, chat her up a little and maybe if he’s lucky get her number. But he’s not very interested in that part of himself anymore, and he’s a little surprised at how easy it is to let that other him dissolve away into nothing at all. Just a path into the future that didn’t get followed, one among millions and millions.

The train shudders to a halt and Dean quickly disembarks, feeling much more put together and back in control of himself. He emerges onto the street and pauses at the top of the subway steps to light a cigarette. That’s one third of breakfast taken care of: see, he’s already winning. 

He sets off towards the East Village at a purposeful clip. In his head he’s carrying a list of Things To Do and he reckons he’s got an hour, maybe an hour and half to achieve them all and get back to the hotel before Jerry gets so bored he starts wrecking their room. _Sbrigare Dino_, he thinks as he breezes around the corner of 12th onto 2nd Avenue and looks up at the familiar building in front of him.


	3. Club 181

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean reaches his destination, befriends an enormous doorman and finds his pal.

The Century Movie Theater is housed in a striking pale pink stone building, very elegant but definitely having seen better days. The long frontage is divided by seven towering, elongated arches, the impact of which is muted by the grubby stone and tattered movie posters. When Dean first started coming here the building was still home to some kind of Yiddish art theatre, and was much better loved. He can see their influence in the lovely carved details surrounding the arches, delicate symbols and lettering that he doesn’t understand but which remind him of things he’s seen on Jerry’s jewellery. It’s not the movie theater that Dean is here for, though. It’s what lies in the building’s basement, glowing down there like a coal in a furnace, drawing him in. 

The main entrance to the theatre sits within the biggest arch of all, the one that’s twice the height of all the others and edged with a huge carved border that even incorporates a set of stone stage curtains into its design. Dean stares up at them, a bit surprised at how intensely glad he is to see the old place again. Two wide sets of double doors lead patrons into the theater's foyer, but he’s not heading there. He wants the discreet, plain black door next to them, the one with a small sign reading ‘Club 181’ mounted quietly beside it.

He really hopes Billy is somewhere on the other side of that door. He’s beginning to feel a bit sheepish about having dashed all the way across town to get Jerry help for what’s essentially a couple of bruises; he’s still wearing the underwear he slept in, for God’s sake. And he hasn’t brushed his teeth, which is disgusting now he thinks about it. He even forgot to put his St Christopher on, and that never happens. But the kid admitted he was in pain and then acted as though it didn’t even matter, and Dean cannot allow that to stand. Not when he has a friend who was a nurse in a previous life, who owes him a favour and who can definitely tell him what to do to help Jer.

The door is being guarded by a burly doorman who Dean doesn’t even recognise. Boy, he thinks, it really has been too long. He tries to cast his mind back: it must be a over year since he’s been here? He definitely didn’t come during the last Havana-Madrid run a few months ago, that’s for sure. He was way too busy fooling around onstage with Jer after hours to want to be anywhere else. Must’ve been the winter before that, he guesses. Probably when he was doing that radio gig, WMCA. Sustaining. Starving, more like. Staying at the Belmont. Yeah. He virtually lived here then. Such a lot has happened since, no wonder he feels like he’s jonesing for the place the closer he gets.

He sticks his hands in his pockets and saunters up to the colossus of a doorman. He’s young but built like a linebacker, burgundy suit coat stretching across hefty shoulders. His jet black hair is slicked away from a low forehead, and beneath that a stoney expression glares out at the crowded street. If this guy isn’t a friend of the Friends then Dean’ll be a monkey’s uncle. 

“Hey buddy,” Dean says, trying to sound like the most harmless man in the world, “is Billy working today?”

The doorman slowly turns his head to look down at him. Dean imagines he can hear boulders grinding together as he moves.

“Who wants to know. Buddy.”

It somehow isn’t a question. This fella might as well be a wall, for all he’s giving away. Good, thinks Dean. Just as it should be. The best queer club in New York deserves the best protection.

The doorman’s New Jersey accent reminds him of his partner, which makes it a bit easier to turn on his easiest, most languid smile.

“Well, see my name’s Dino and…”

The doorman’s heavy eyebrows shoot up. “You’re Dino?!” He says, suddenly beaming down at Dean. He looks 10 years younger and 100% less intimidating. Don’t do that too often buddy, he thinks. Not if you want to hang onto your job.

“I was last time I looked,” Dean says, accepting the doorman’s handshake with relief.

“It sure is good to meet you! The whole gang here talks about you all the time.” 

Oh boy, now that could be embarrassing. It’s times like this when now-Dean wishes past-Dean had been somewhat better at keeping it in his pants. But what can you do? There are a lot of people worth getting to know in the world, and Dean isn’t very good at talking. The doorman seems pleased to see him at least, so his reputation can’t be too terrible.

“Billy’s downstairs fixin’ the bar up for tonight. Gee, she’ll be pleased to see you Dino.” The doorman gives his shoulder a friendly pat with one massive paw and Dean tries not to stagger. “Go right on down.”

His new best buddy reaches into the doorway and draws aside the heavy blue curtain that separates the club from the outside world. Thanking him, Dean heads downstairs. 

At this time of the afternoon the club is still closed. There are a few waiters bustling about getting things ready, and a scattering of bored performers are waiting out the hours before showtime sipping drinks and chatting at the little round tables. The fashionable, largely straight crowd that comes in for the shows won’t be filling the place up for a long while yet.

Dean immediately spots Billy polishing glasses behind the bar. She looks just the same as always, which delights him more than he can say. If you saw her in the street you’d mistake her for a boy, easy. It’s only the fact that she’s here tending bar at the 181 that would make anybody question it. She’s a little older than Dean, stocky, with a handsome face and auburn hair cut short at the sides and towering into a high pompadour on top. Her white shirtsleeves are rolled up and she’s entirely absorbed in her work. Dean pauses a few feet from the bar and says,

“What’s a nice boy like you doing in a place like this?”

At the sound of his voice Billy’s head shoots up and her face breaks into an enormous smile.

“Dino Crocetti! Jesus fucking Christ Dino, I was starting to think you were dead!”

She rushes around the bar and straight into his outstretched arms. He picks her up and swings her around twice before setting her back on her feet, quietly registering the difference between this body and the one he’s become used to having in his arms. Billy is heavier and softer and substantially shorter, but it’s so beautifully simple to be half of an embrace that just says _hello friend_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ladies, gentlemen and friends beyond the binary... I give you bisexual Dean Martin. He's a pretty nice fella, I hope you like him.
> 
> This has accidentally turned from a fluffy bit of hurt/comfort into a personal obsession with the gay scene in 1940s New York, for which I apologise. Now the initial research jag is over, I hope to be updating a bit more regularly. Thank you so much for reading <3


	4. Billy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is given coffee, a shopping list and a sound piece of medical advice.

Once Billy has finally released Dean from the hug, she delivers a short, heavily Brooklyn-accented lecture on the importance of keeping in touch with good, loyal friends who worry. Then she leads him over to the bar, tells him he looks like shit and fixes them each a small cup of black coffee that’s strong enough to revive a corpse. She looks so completely at home there, bustling around behind the bar with a dishcloth hanging from her back pocket and a pencil behind her ear. Brings back good memories. She looks up at him and shakes her head,

“My old buddy Dino, large as life. I wish I could say you look good.” She reaches over and rubs her hand against his jawline. “Talk about a five o’clock shadow, you got full on midnight here.”

He scrubs his own hand over his face and hears the stubble rasp.

“I left in kind of a hurry.”

“Why, her husband come home early?” Billy waggles her eyebrows and he laughs.

“Aw, c’mon Billy.”

“Other way ‘round?”

“No, nothing like that! Will you quit ragging me?” He socks her gently on the shoulder. “I just wanted to be quick, that’s all. Didn’t have time to dress right.” He tries to straighten his jacket a little.

“I can see that, boy. By the way, you’re missing a link.” She nods at his hand, where the rolled-up cuff has come untucked and is flapping again.

“Oh, yeah. It’s okay,” he says a bit sheepishly. “I was only wearing one anyway.” Billy tilts her head and eyes him with suspicion. Quick as a flash she takes hold of his other wrist and examines the little gold cufflink there.

“J?” She says. Goddamn Billy, she always has been sharp as a shithouse rat. Dean snatches his hand back and hides it in his lap.

“Oh! Like that, huh?” Grinning now, she asks, “who’s J, Dino?”

For a split second he considers lying. It’s not out of shame, just a lazy kind of impulse to make life easier for himself. But he learned a long time ago that that kind of deception rarely does. Anyway, he has nothing to hide. Not really.

“My partner, Jerry.”

“You got a partner now? And you’re wearing one of his cufflinks because…?”

Dean cringes inwardly. _Because I took it off him to get at his skin, he thinks. Because he was upset and I was desperate to make it better. Because the best I could come up with was drawing an imaginary fucking watch around his wrist, like an idiot. Which, by the way, I then_ kissed. _Oh, dio santo, Dino_. He is fine with how he feels about Jerry; he is not fine with looking like such a lovesick sap. 

“It’s a long story,” he says. “We’re doing a double.”

“Doing a double?”

“Doing a double, “ he nods.

“Is that a euphemism?”

“A what now?”

“A clean way of saying something dirty.”

“Oh,” he frowns. “Sounds like something that belongs in the horn section.” Billy laughs, and Dean carries on.

“It’s just a professional double. An act. Well, not ‘just'. Maybe. Well. It’s another long story.” He scrubs his hand over his face again. “You got any more of that rocket fuel?”

“Sure.” She disappears out back for a moment and returns with the whole pot of coffee. Pouring them both another cup she says, “so. A double?”

“Yeah. At the Havana-Madrid, you know, over by the Winter Garden? Reckon we’ll get held over too it’s going so good.” He pats his pockets for cigarettes. “Three shows a night, two dollar minimum, try the steak. Jerry says that according to Billboard we have the crowd ‘yowling and limp’.” He smiles down at the bar, mostly self-deprecation but with a tiny hint of pride.

“But that’s wonderful Dino! And you’re singing still?”

“Oh yeah, plenty of that. I’m the singer, he’s the comic, but we both run around like nuts.” He lights up and takes a long, soothing drag. "That’s it, that’s the act. The crowd goes crazy for it.” He shakes his head, still baffled by the reaction they’re getting.

“Aww, don’t be bashful!” Billy pats his hand. “You’ve been working for this for years, you deserve it. Be proud.”

He absolutely does not deserve it. Dean knows hard work, and this barely even _registers_. Half the time he comes off stage so dazed he can’t even really remember what they did. But then Jerry’ll throw his arms around him and tell him he’s the best in the whole world, and somehow an armful of sweaty, exhausted partner makes him half-believe something a packed-to-the-rafters room of hysterical punters can’t: that perhaps, just maybe, there’s a chance he might not be entirely useless.

He just smiles at her a bit ruefully, and she knows him well enough to know that he’s done with the subject.

“So, what brings you here Dino? Funny time of day for a social call, notwithstanding you look like a rat startled from his nest.”

She sees him looking around for an ashtray and slides one across the bar quickly before he taps his ash somewhere obscure.

“Well Nurse Billy, I need your help.” He sighs exaggeratedly and tries the puppy dog eyes on her, even though he knows it won’t work because Billy’s one of the few people he’s met who has what she calls ‘dinommunity’.

“Oh, I see. I should’a known!” Billy rolls her eyes. ”Well, what ails thee, sir? If it’s crabs again, I ain’t interested.”

“No, no, not this time Billy. Truly, it’s not even about me. It’s Jerry.”

“Tell me,” she says.

“He got hurt in our show last night. Pratfall from high altitude. Supposed to be my job to catch him but I was too far away… I think he thought I was behind him.” His mouth twists a little, but he carries on. “Anyway, he landed real hard on his arm. Hard enough to smash his watch to pieces.” He catches himself stroking his own arm in sympathy. “Last night he seemed fine, but when we woke up this morning he’s there waving two bruises the size of damn saucers in front of my face and… what?”

Billy has leant back from the bar and is regarding him skeptically.

“What? What did I say?”

“You said ‘When we woke up’.”

“You want we should wake down?”

“‘When _we_ woke up’?”

“What? There was two of us, there was sleeping, the sleeping stopped, so yeah, we woke up.” He really hopes he’s not going red.

“You wanna tell me something Dino?”

“Nope.”

“So you and this Jerry, you’re sleeping together?”

“We’re sharing a bed, but not like that. What? What are you looking at me like that for? Buddies share all the time.”

“Mm-hmm.”

“It’s nine bucks cheaper, Billy! Plus it means there’s more space between the bed and the walls. You know those rooms at the Bryant. Cram two beds in one of ‘em and there’s barely room for people. A fella can hardly breathe in there.”

“So, what, you can’t be in close proximity to furniture but you can squeeze up all nice and cosy with this new partner of yours? Gimme a break, Dino.” She’s teasing him and it’s embarrassing, but if he’s honest he’s really, really missed it. He’s missed her, missed having someone around who knows him this well.

“Aw, shut up Billy. Stop making sense, it’s too early.”

Billy grins at him massively, so Dean puts on his best ‘shut up’ face and points it right at her.

“Early? It’s nearly 4.30pm Dino.”

“It is? Phew, I gotta get back.” He says, crossing his legs and making absolutely no move towards leaving.

“Alright already, I get the message. So you want some help with these injuries, huh?”

“Yes please. I don’t…” He pauses. Does he really want to say all this? “I don’t think he’s ever had anyone taking care of him before. I asked if he was hurting and he said yes like he was confused that I’d even think of it. I know it’s only a couple bruises, but I want to help him and I don’t want to mess it up.”

Billy nods her understanding.

“Okay, Dino,” she smiles. “That’s okay. We can help him. So here I’m gonna make a list of everything you need for your mission of mercy.”

On the bar there’s a small stack of cocktail napkins, Wedgwood blue like the walls of the club and printed on one corner with the legend, _‘Club 181: New York’s Most Unique Nite Spot’_. Billy grabs one to write on and flips the pencil from behind her ear. Her demeanour alters; Nurse Billy is now in the house.

“First: arnica.” She writes ‘1)’ on the napkin and then spells out the word in neat capitals. “It’ll reduce swelling, bring the bruises out. Your boy will heal quicker.” She thinks for a moment then adds, “so second, of course, you’ll need some cotton. That’s to put the arnica on with. Make a pad, soak it, hold it on the bruises.”

She glances up at Dean and points the pencil at him; he nods to show he’s understood.

“Third… he said it hurt?”

“Yeah.”

“Okay, then you’ll be a good pal and bring him a painkiller. Get Anacin, something like that. Works fast.” 

Anacin gets added to the list in Billy’s careful capitals. Beneath it she writes ‘4)’, then pauses and looks up earnestly at Dean, an almost undetectable glint in her eye.

“Fourth, and this one is important Dino, are you listening?”

He nods emphatically.

“Fourth, and absolutely vital, I think the thing that’ll help him the most,” she writes as she speaks, “is a slow…slow, you hear?… deep… kiss on the mouth from a sexy Italian nightclub singer... hey!!” 

Scribbling as fast as she can, she gets as far as the first s of ‘kiss’ before he manages to grab hold of the napkin and whip it out from under her pencil.

“Oh pally, you’re blushing! I never knew you had the equipment even, you old hound dog you!” Billy’s delighted laughter fills the club as Dean props his elbows on the bar and plants his face in his hands, eyes covered.


	5. Paul

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Left alone in their hotel room for longer than is sensible, Jerry tries to entertain himself but his thoughts keep turning back to Dean.

Jerry has been alone in this wretched hotel room for so long that he has forgotten how to speak. He has been alone so long, it’s like he’s never even met another human being in the whole of his sorry life. Dean’s been gone for hours and hours, days, weeks even. Well, an hour, at least. Jerry’s never been so bored. 

Dean said ‘stay’ and so he has stayed, but he’s beginning to wonder for how long exactly he’s supposed to stay stayed. And also, he’s not in point of fact an actual _dog_. A person can’t just tell him ‘stay’ and expect him to obey forever. Except apparently Dean can because, well: here he still is.

Jerry doesn’t like this. He wants to go out, he really does. He wants a distraction from the pain in his arm. He wants a vanilla milkshake for breakfast and a cigarette lit by his partner. In his head, he’s made it a kind of ritual between them that Dean lights his first smoke of the day when he wakes up. He thinks maybe it’s lucky (Lucky Strike, ha ha). It’s certainly working for them so far, anyway. He never told Dean this, he’s just been doing it on the sly, you know:

“Oh hey Dean, my lighter’s all the way over there in my pants pocket, you got one here?”

“Oh hey Dean, that book of matches I had last night got wet from the seltzer, would you mind?”

“Oh hey Dean, my hand’s shaking too hard, you know I shouldn’t have coffee, could you just…?”

Pretty subtle. Anyhow, when he woke up yesterday he somehow, for the very first time, forgot the ritual and went to light his cigarette himself. Dean had looked mildly panicked, leaned over and blown out the match.

“Hey! You want us to lay an egg tonight? Jeez, buddy. Here.” Shaking his head, he’d sparked up his own lighter and done the deed. Jerry just looked at him in amazement, hardly able to get the tip in the flame he was so dumbfounded. Is this guy for real? How did he know? Jerry’s seriously starting to think Dean can read minds. Or maybe it’s just his mind. There’s a thought to make a nervous wreck out of a young man in… well. A young man who happens to be maybe in _trouble_ with his new best friend.

So yeah, now Jerry’s stuck here alone and can’t even smoke till Dean comes home. What a situation. Which, Jerry figures, means that Dean definitely deserves everything that Jerry has done to his clothes over the last half hour. He hasn’t done anything very much, really. Not at all. Everything is exactly, precisely where Dean left it. It might be meticulously turned inside-out now, but that’s another matter. 

The only thing that isn’t where Dean left it is his pale green shirt, which Jerry is currently wearing. Why is it only Italian fellas can get away with wearing colored shirts? Everyone else gets called a fairy, but for the Itralians this is fine? Jerry doesn’t understand it. He really likes bright colors and what, he’s not allowed to wear them? Phooey.

Dean mostly has white shirts anyway, but he has a few in some beautiful shades. This green one is Jerry’s favourite; Dean wears it a lot, so it’s been washed soft and it feels much nicer than his robe. So what if he crumples it, wearing it in bed? Dean deserves it, leaving him alone so long. What does the guy expect him to do, _not_ mess with his stuff?

From his position lying on the bed propped up by a few pillows, Jerry can see pretty much every bit of their little room. He likes this room a lot, actually, for all that it’s kind of small and a bit shabby around the edges. Jerry reckons that anyone who knows him and Dean, or has even just seen their act, would be surprised by the condition of this room. To be specific: it’s really, really tidy. And, you know, nice? He thinks they’ve made it nice. It probably helps that neither of them has ever been used to staying in one place for very long so, aside from maybe a bit more clothing than is strictly necessary, neither of them really owns all that much stuff. 

Jerry likes to know where his things are, and that he’s got everything he needs and everything is orderly. That’s a good feeling. So he looks after his belongings, puts them away properly. Dean’s a bit different, he just likes space better than things, so he keeps everything tidy because of that. One morning, very early, they couldn’t sleep so they were lying in bed talking about the worst places they’d ever lived. Dean had admitted that even though Sonny was a great buddy, he’d had a hard time sharing with him for so long. Dean said there were,

“Always piles of goddamn… stuff everywhere.”

“What kind of stuff?”

“I don’t know. Everything. Laundry, newspapers, food. Just… spazzatura, you know? Crap.”

“Call it schmutter.”

“Schmutter, huh?”

“Uh-huh.”

“I like that.”

Later that night on stage, Dean had waved his arms around to encompass all the broken crockery, bits of cut-off clothing and debris that their antics had left strewn about the club. He’d put on his best fresh-off-the-boat Italian accent and said,

“Ay, ay, kid! What’s wid all-a dis _schmutter_ here, huh?"

Quick as a flash Jerry’d shot back with, “Who are you, Rabbi Crocetti?!” Dean had laughed and leaned back against the piano, smiled at him with such indulgence and quietly said,

“Shalom, tesoro mio.”

That had surprised such a brilliant laugh out of Jerry that he’d had to fall on the floor to stop himself going over there and giving Dean a kiss just for being so fantastically himself. He really did need to stop himself. It’s not that he’s got anything against kissing Dean, it’s just that it would’ve been the third one of the night and that’s pushing it, even for them.

Keeping the room tidy isn’t the only thing they’ve done to make it nice. They’ve kind of decorated it a little bit too. There’s a mirror that hangs on the wall next to the bathroom door and they’ve cut out some pictures and reviews and things from the trade papers and stuck them up all around it. Jerry thinks housekeeping will probably have something to say about the pinholes in the wallpaper when they eventually move on. They might try to charge them for repairs, but that’s okay. If they do, he’ll just mention the mouse and how maybe it’s against city regulations to have vermin running about the hotel unchecked. They’ll back down then, for sure. 

By the way, this mouse is crazy. He runs across the floor at the same time every day. Five am, like clockwork. Like he’s going to work. Sometimes if they’re still awake they’ll lay bets on whether it’ll be a minute before or a minute after five. He comes out from under their bed, scurries across the rug and underneath the dresser on the opposite wall. That’s where his racket is, Dean said. First time they saw him do that, Jerry had insisted on checking the bottom drawer of the dresser to make sure he wasn’t nesting in their socks. Once they’d established that he wasn’t, they’d decided to just let him go about his business. It’s not like he’s hurting anyone. Dean named him Graziano because he says he’s an Italian mouse. Jerry asked how he knew and Dean just looked affronted and said he knows a paisano when he sees one, so Jerry didn’t argue. The next mouse they encounter is definitely going to be called Melvin though.

On top of the dresser that Graziano runs under every day there is a very small, silver double photograph frame. The frame contains a picture of Jerry’s mom and dad in one half and a very creased photo of his grandma Sarah in the other. It is the sum total of their family photograph collection. Once, Jerry asked Dean if he wanted to put a picture of his kids up there next to it. He knows he’s got one, because he showed it to him once. Dean just shook his head a bit sadly, said no and changed the subject. 

Jerry knows Dean’s kids are back in Steubenville with their mother, and that she and Dean finished a little while before Jerry came on the scene. She’s got a new husband now, he heard. Some businessman. Someone who’s a better fit, Dean said. That blows Jerry’s mind. Why would anyone want some _businessman_ when they could have Dean? A better fit?! 

Six months’ time, he knows in his bones that he and Dean will be the talk of the East Coast and they’ll have more money than they know what to do with. Then she’ll be sorry. A better fit. What fit? He and Dean are opposite as can be on the outside, but they fit beautifully.

Dean sends money to the kids anyway. Jerry’s seen him mailing the cheques. It’s not a lot of money, and he guesses they don’t even really need it with this _businessman_ looking out for them, but still. It’s more about Dean feeling like he’s providing. Jerry understands that, even though he has no kids of his own. He adores children, but he’s only 20 for God’s sake; that’d be crazy, he’s practically a child himself. But he understands Dean’s need to be at least something of a father, so he’s happy to stay at the shittier end of the hotel spectrum to make sure there’s something left over for Dean to send back to Ohio. Plus it’s not without its compensations; Jerry’s never much liked sleeping alone.

If Jerry turns his head to his right he can see the little nightstand that’s pushed up against their bed. There should really be one on each side of the bed but this is an extremely cheap hotel, so there’s only one and it happens to be on Jerry’s side. He kind of likes seeing both of their stuff all mixed up together on there. If Dean wants to put anything down or get anything back he has to either ask Jerry to do it or just reach over, which is barely a stretch given the size of the bed. Sometimes Jerry refuses to help, ostensibly because he’s nobody’s servant but actually because he likes it when Dean has to lean over and squash him a little. He’d deny it in a court of law though.

Currently, the top of the nightstand is home to the following: one ugly lamp (not theirs); one comic book (Batman. Dean’s, but shhhh); a little pile of postcards stolen from the Havana-Madrid (‘Where Rhumba is King’); the glasses Dean pretends not to need; fifty-six cents in loose change; the lighter that stopped working after Jerry dropped it in a malted (it’s going to get fixed, Dean knows a guy); a postcard from Sonny with a picture of Las Vegas in glorious sunshine on one side and the message ’HA HA HA!!’ on the other; three cufflinks; the remains of Jerry’s broken watch, still wrapped in a handkerchief; Dean’s St Christopher pendant; oh no, wait. That shouldn’t be there.

Dean never goes out without his St Christopher. He takes it off at night because he doesn’t like stuff around his neck when he’s sleeping, but putting it back on is always pretty much the first thing he does when he wakes up. It’s about the only thing he has that he’s sentimental about, which is the opposite of Jerry who’ll get sentimental about an old handkerchief given half a chance. 

Feeling like he’s doing something illicit, Jerry picks up the pendant and examines it. He’s always been curious about it, in that greedy little brother way. Curious only because it’s Dean’s. The silver is cold against his fingers, and that’s so jarring. He’s touched it before but only while Dean was wearing it, so it was warm. Dean’s always warm. 

Dean had told him that the necklace had been a present for his confirmation: he’d got that and a new middle name. Jerry asked if that was something they did in Italy, the name thing. Dean had said no, American. But his dad liked the idea of a good American Catholic for a son, and little Dino liked the idea of picking out a new name for himself, so. 

Jerry can’t believe he chose Paul. It’s _too_ perfect. A Roman _and_ a Jew! Apostle to the Gentiles, no less! He learned this at school. Patient endurance, sudden change. It’s too perfect for Dean, just too much. How did he know that, at 10 years old? ? Jerry loves it, just _loves it_.

He’s kind of, and this is a secret, but he’s kind of started to think of Dean as ‘Paul’. When he thinks of him alone in his head, anyway. He even says it out loud sometimes, though not often. It just… suits him. And only people who don’t really know him call him Dean, he’s discovered. The people who do know him call him Dino. And Jerry knows he could call him Dino too, of course he does. But. 

He sees this Dino person, sees him charming bartenders and flirting with cigarette girls and roughing up Sonny when he’s being a pain in the ass. Sees him under the stage lights, singing and dancing and working and sweating and then. And then sometimes he catches his eye just right. Across the stage, or across a crowded room at a party, or just across their mattress. And it’s different. 

It’s hard to explain; Jerry’s never known the like of it. But the Dino-shaped person looking back at him, listening to him and maybe touching him and occasionally even telling him something, is different. He’s Paul. When he’s looking out at the world he’s Dino but when he’s looking back at Jerry, he’s Paul. Jerry feels that a thing like that is deserving of acknowledgement, somehow.

It’s not like Dean doesn’t already have about a million different names for Jerry, anyhow. Seems like he hardly even uses the same one twice, apart from ‘Jer’. He asked him about it one night and Dean said,

“You don’t have a name, Joey-Jerome. You’re a force of nature, you don’t need one.”

Jerry figures there must be a real name for him somewhere, underneath all the others. Maybe one day they’ll find it. He wonders if he’ll know it when they do.

Dean’s pendant is still swinging from his fingertips, and he has an idea. He quickly undoes his own necklace and places it on the nightstand in a little pile of gold. Very carefully, wary of the fine chain, he clasps the St Christopher around his own neck and presses it against his chest beneath the green shirt. Maybe if someone who’s in… trouble… with Dean wears it, the protection will carry through them to Dean, and keep him safe. Like they’re connected, you know? Because they are, he truly believes that they are.

He lies back against the pillows, closes his eyes and tries to project his thoughts to Dean, to figure out where he is and make him feel safe. But the signals coming back are muffled, like Dean’s underground or something. Jerry’s arm’s still throbbing and he’s suffused with that soft kind of tiredness, result of not quite enough sleep. It doesn’t take long before he’s dozing, faint afternoon sunlight warming the cosy little room.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You might notice that this one makes a pretty big departure from canon: Dean's already divorced and Jerry never got married in the first place. Sorry, it does feel like cheating a bit, but it also just feels a lot less sad that way. And I'm all for less sad :)


	6. Like Honey

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nurse Dino does his best.

It’s the key in the door that wakes him. Jerry reluctantly blinks his eyes open. He was right in the middle of a beautiful dream and it takes a second to remember where he really is. Boy, that dream was vivid! The wash of the waves is still in his ears, the warm sand under his back. Atlantic City. Pink sky and no human voices: dawn. Pale sunlight on his face and not a soul around except, of course, for…

Dean is standing in the open doorway with his arms full of parcels and a strange expression on his face. He’s looking at Jerry like he’s mildly thunderstruck, like he’s seeing something astonishing. Jerry looks down at himself, very much awake now and mortified that his anatomy might have done something embarrassing while he slept. But no. It wasn’t that kind of dream, and Dean’s shirt is so big on him that everything’s well covered anyway. Thank god. Oh, wait: the shirt. Dean must be looking at the shirt and wondering why the hell it’s got Jerry inside it. 

He decides to brazen it out. Sitting up straight, he tips his head back a little and gives Dean his cockiest look, daring him to object.

“Suits me, don’t it?”

Dean blinks at him for a second, then seems to come back from wherever it was his mind went. He enters the room properly and closes the door behind him, all nonchalance again as usual.

“You look beautiful, honey.” He says, casually.

“HA!” Jerry laughs loud and sudden, then quickly claps both hands over his mouth. Dean grins at him and comes over to the bed.

“Look what I got you.”

“You got me somethin’?”

“Sure. Got nothing but stuff for you. Oh, except for this,” he nods his head to indicate a tiny paper cup, balanced on top of a much larger paper cup that he holds in his right hand. The strong scent of espresso wafts over to Jerry. “This baby’s all mine.”

“Ugh keep it, I don’t want it.” He pulls a face.

Dean perches on the edge of the bed and sets out his packages on the mattress. Aside from the cups there’s a small white cardboard deli box, plus two large paper bags with the name of a downtown pharmacy printed on them. Dean shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it neatly on the bedpost. Now that he’s in only his shirtsleeves, Jerry can feel the warmth radiating off him; _he’s been hurrying,_ he thinks. _Hurrying back to me?_

“Where you been anyway?” He asks, shuffling a little closer. “Ooh you smell like the subway, boy.”

“All over town, I’ve been. Here, this is yours.” He passes Jerry the bigger of the two cups, fishes a paper straw from his pocket and slots it in the top

“What’s this?”

“It’s holy water. Whaddaya think it is, nitwit?”

“A vanilla milkshake from Lindy’s?”

“Give that boy a gold star.”

“Really?” Jerry’s eyes light up. He takes a sip of the milkshake. “It is!”

“Of course. And this.” He hands the little deli box over. Jerry takes it, slurps a big gulp of his milkshake, cold and delicious, and sets the cup down amid the debris on the nightstand. It’s enough that Dean brought him the milkshake, but now here’s something else too? A surprise that Dean went out and bought, just for him. Dean was thinking of him. That’s. That’s something, is what that is. He unfolds the flaps of the box and peeks inside.

“Halva! You brought me halva!”

“Is it the right kind?”

“It’s all the right kind!” He breaks off a little piece and pops it in his mouth. Shit, that’s good. “I knew there was a reason I married you,” he says, mouth full. Dean just rolls his eyes. He nudges Dean’s arm with the box.

“You want some?”

“No, Jer. It’s revolting.”

“You know, I don’t get it.” Jerry shakes his head and takes another piece. “For all you’ve got great taste in most things - partners especially - you don’t like halva yet.”

“Ugh, no. It’s too sweet, Jer. And it sticks inside your mouth worse than peanut butter.”

Jerry, chewing happily, opens his mouth wide.

“What, like this?”

“Ugh, monkey!” Dean puts one hand under his jaw, the other on top of his head, and forcibly closes his mouth for him. “You keep that to yourself.”

Jerry beams at him and resumes chewing like a nice, polite boy. After a moment, he leans over and plants a sticky kiss on Dean’s forehead.

“What’s that for?”

“Thank you.”

“Hmph.” Dean picks up his coffee and takes a sip. “Say, Jer?”

“Hmm?”

“Why are you wearing my shirt?”

“Oh, this? This is yours?” Jerry glances down at himself, all innocence. Dean hooks his finger into the V of the open collar and tugs it towards himself a little.

“This is mine,” he says, looking Jerry dead in the eye. For a second Jerry’s not sure they’re talking about the shirt anymore. The answer’s the same either way though, he figures.

“This is yours,” he says, mouth a bit dry. Dean hums contemplatively, and lets go. Jerry wants to change the subject.

“What’s in these bags here Dean?” He asks.

“Ah, well, I went to the drugstore. This is all stuff to help with your arm.” He picks up one of the sacks and tips out the contents. Two amber glass bottles roll out onto the mattress, one large and full of clear liquid, the other small and rattling with pills. He opens up the other bag and pulls out a large package of fluffy white cotton.

Jerry watches the top of Dean’s curly head as he fusses with the bags. He watches as he palms the bill and stuffs it into his pocket so Jerry won’t see how much he spent. Another bit of paper, blue, looks like a napkin, drifts unnoticed to the floor. Jerry picks up the bigger bottle and sloshes the liquid around inside.

“What’s this?”

“That’s called arnica. It’s going on your arm,” says Dean. Jerry stops sloshing and looks at him.

“It’s only bruises Paul. Really.”

“And they’re hurting you.’

“Well. Yeah.’

“Look,” Dean sighs, “if it makes you feel better we can pretend I’m purely concerned for the future of the act, okay? I mean, how am I supposed to throw you around when you’re already damaged?”

“I guess that’s a good point, partner.” Jerry starts sloshing the bottle around again. “So arnica, huh? I never even heard of it. You and Sonny use this when you were fighting or something?”

“Naw, never used it before. I, uh, got some advice from a friend. She used to be a nurse, said this would be good stuff to use.” Dean says. Jerry examines the bottle more closely than anyone could possibly need to, nods his head and tries to squash the little stab of pain he feels at that feminine pronoun. He didn’t even know Dean had a friend who was a nurse. He guesses there’s still an awful lot he doesn’t know about his partner. Dean darts a look at him, a bit sheepish maybe? No, not sheepish. Something else. Jerry can’t put his finger on it. Rueful?

“Take these first,” Dean says, shaking two pills out of the little bottle. Jerry obediently swallows them down with a gulp of milkshake. “Now,” Dean rubs his hands together, “roll up my sleeve and let’s get on with it.”

“Yes, Nurse Dino! Whatever you say.”

“You better believe it buddy.”

Jerry carefully rolls his sleeve back, ignoring Dean’s wince when he sees the bruises. They seem to have deepened since he last looked at them, the blue and grey becoming an aching purple. It’s pretty interesting. Dean pulls off a big piece of cotton and soaks it with arnica. It has a clean, medicinal sort of smell, strong but not unpleasant. Jerry stretches his bare arm out towards Dean and, as gently as he can, Dean wraps the wet pad of cotton around his injured elbow and holds it there. Jerry flinches.

“Sorry Jer, did I hurt you?”

“No, s’cold!”

“Ah, don’t be a baby.”

“I’m not being a baby! You’re very rude. Here I am, just minding my own business, _resting_, and in you come with your Itralian folk remedies and now the whole arm is frozen, the blood is ice inside the veins, icicles are…”

Dean clamps his free hand over Jerry’s mouth.

“Okay, okay, it’s cold, I get it. Shhh. Drink your milkshake, like a good boy.”

Jerry retrieves his cup from the nightstand and obediently applies himself to the straw. He watches as Dean adjusts the position of his hand a little, ensuring that the pad is wrapped all the way around Jerry’s skinny arm. Dean’s thumb and fingers meet easily in the crook of his elbow. The arnica is cooling the pain into blessed numbness, and Jerry begins to relax. 

He’s glad that, in between the cup and Dean’s ministrations, both of his hands are occupied because what he really wants to do is reach out and touch his partner’s hair again, like he did while Dean was sleeping. He hasn’t put any pomade on it yet today and it looks so soft and rumpled, and he’s so very lovely. Jerry thinks he might burst with all the affection and gratitude that’s glowing inside him. Dean’s going to all this trouble just to make him feel better. He feels cared for, and it’s incredible. Hot tears prickle at the corners of his eyes.

“Is it doing anything?” Dean asks, looking up at him and raising his eyebrows.

_Yes it’s fucking doing something_, Jerry thinks. _Good grief. What are you doing to me?_ He manages to give Dean a slightly watery smile and squeezes out,

“Yes, it’s helping.”

“You sure? You’ve got to tell me if I’m hurting you, Jer.” Dean’s noticed his eyes filling and looks concerned. “I’m sorry I called you a baby.”

“No, no, no, it’s just the smell from this stuff making my eyes water. It’s good, honest.”

Dean frowns at him, disbelieving, and his grip starts to loosen.

“Honest! Honest it’s good.” He gestures towards his wrist. “Do the other one. Please.”

“Okay, okay. If you’re sure. Keep still.” Dean releases Jerry’s elbow and the damp cotton stays in place, impressed with the shape of his fingers. He picks up his coffee and touches it against Jerry’s cup.

“L’chayim.”

“Salute.” Jerry replies, relieved.

Dean drains the coffee in one go, then turns his attention back to the packages on the bed. He pulls out another big wad of cotton and methodically soaks it with arnica again. Very carefully he takes hold of Jerry’s fingers with his right hand, then hesitates. The remains of the watch he inked around Jerry’s wrist, still visible where the bruising is palest, catch his attention. He cautiously extends one finger and strokes across the face.

“Say, what time is it, Jer?” He asks softly, and Jerry knows exactly what he wants to hear without even having to think about it.

“Eight twenty-five.”

“Well, then.” He looks pleased. “I guess it is.”

Dean’s left hand wraps the cool cotton all the way around Jerry’s delicate wrist and holds it there gently. For all he tries to keep it locked in, a tiny whimper of pleasure escapes Jerry’s tightly-closed lips. He’s used to the cold now, and instead of startling him it’s sending the pain in his wrist blissfully numb.

“Mmmmm.” 

Dean glances up from what he’s doing and smiles at him.

“Feels good?”

“Mmm-hmm.” Biting his lip, he pushes his now empty milkshake cup back onto the nightstand, slides down the bed at little and lies back against the pillows. He thinks the painkillers must be kicking in. He feels… not drowsy exactly, but soft. Warm. Mildly removed from reality. He feels the mattress shift as Dean moves further onto the bed, tucking one leg up underneath himself and getting comfortable. Jerry figures his impulse control must’ve gotten killed along with the pain, because before he really knows what he’s doing his free hand is stroking through Dean’s curls.

“Determined to mess up my hair today, huh Jer?”

Jerry just smiles at him, eyes at half mast. He moves his hand down and idly strokes the shell of Dean’s ear. It must tickle, because his shoulder comes up protectively. Ha. Keeping his fingertips there, he uses his thumb to lightly trace Dean’s hairline, then to smooth over one black eyebrow. Dean lets him. He thinks about this wolfish look that Dean gets sometimes, when he’s being protective. Jerry adores that look. He thinks about it now as he touches the bones of Dean’s face. Dean looks anything but wolfish at the moment, just looking at him softly. Holding his gaze. Jerry slides his fingertips down to his jaw, lets his thumb brush the scar that splits Dean’s lower lip.

“What are you doing, crazy boy?” Dean asks quietly.

“Just getting to know you.”

“Oh, really? Good luck.”

“Thank you. I’ll do it, you know.”

“We’ll see.”

“I’m a hard worker.”

Dean huffs a laugh at that, and breaks their gaze. He looks back down to where his hand clasps Jerry’s wrist.

“You’re gonna need to be, pally.”

Jerry returns his attention to Dean’s hair, smoothing it back with long, rhythmic strokes. Slow, sweet contentment pours through him like honey. He could happily stay like this for hours. It makes him feel bold, so he says:

“You like having your hair touched. This much I know.”

Dean keeps his eyes down.

“Maybe.”

With his left hand still wrapped around Jerry’s injured wrist, he carefully slides his right out from underneath his fingers and moves it away. Jerry’s hand feels cold against the blanket, suddenly all alone. _Oh no,_ he thinks. _Don’t move. Don’t go. I didn’t mean it._

But before he can articulate his protests, Dean returns and starts softly stroking his fingertips down the back of Jerry’s hand. Again. And again. Feels nice. He keeps on for a few moments then changes his pattern, lightly running the tip of his index finger all the way down Jerry’s own, skimming over his bumpy knuckles. He slows right down as he traces the fine edge of his fingernail over the sensitive place where skin meets nail; a tiny shiver sparkles up Jerry’s arm. Dean follows the same path all the way back up his finger, then methodically moves on to the next, taking his time like it’s something completely absorbing. Middle… then ring… then pinky. Then back to the index to start all over again.

Jerry can’t tear his eyes away from their hands. Dean’s dwarfs his own, makes it look even more slender than usual. _He’s playing with my fingers,_ Jerry thinks dumbly. _He’s just playing with my fingers, that’s all. So why is my whole body starting to shake?_

All this attention is sparking up nerve endings he didn’t even know he had, so by the time Dean works his way around to his ring finger for the third goddamn time his skin is so sensitised he isn’t sure how much more he can bear to be touched. Dean runs his nail across the very tip of his finger and the hand stroking Dean’s hair stutters, breaking their rhythm.

Dean keeps his head down, eyes fixed on what he’s doing, but Jerry can see his face shifting into a private smile. He carries on, agonisingly slow down Jerry’s pinky finger and even slower coming back up.

“Getting to know you too,” he says softly.

Without a word of warning he changes the pattern again, sliding the blunt length of his middle finger so slowly up in between Jerry’s first two digits, gently stroking all the way along their sensitive sides and coming to rest with his fingertip brushing against the soft, secret place where they meet, a place Jerry’s sure no one has ever, ever touched him before.

Even if Dean doesn’t hear his gasp, he must feel the fingers that tighten in his hair as Jerry tries to fight the wave of tingling heat that goes through him. It flushes over his face and his chest and he wills it please, please not to go any further south. He presses his head back against the pillows, closes his eyes and tries not to whine as Dean starts rubbing his finger against that magic spot he’s discovered.

Desperate not to move his hand and break the spell, he can’t help but dig his fingers into the mattress. His breathing’s going haywire. His other hand has given up any pretence of stroking Dean’s hair now and is just gripping and flexing, holding him in place. _How’s he doing this?_ Jerry thinks. _It’s our hands, for crying out loud. It’s only our goddamn hands and it feels like we’re… oh fuck, that feels good._

The rubbing slows, slides downwards as Dean begins to withdraw, slipping gently along the soft skin on the inner edges of his fingers. Jerry opens his eyes to see Dean looking at his face now, openly fascinated. He lets his hand fall from Dean’s hair, struggles to get his breathing back under control and, feigning a confidence he does not feel, asks,

“Learn anything?”

“Mmm,” Dean smiles at him, now lightly tracing random patterns on the back of his hand. “Sensitive.”

Jerry looks away, shamefaced. That word’s been thrown at him too many times before, and it never meant anything a person would want to be. 

“Learn anything _good_?”

“Sensitive is good, Jer. Sensitive is really, really good. I’m sorry; was it too much?”

Jerry shakes his head emphatically and swallows, unable to force himself to meet Dean’s eyes again.

“Anything else?”

“Responsive.” Dean touches the tip of his index finger to Jerry’s, who instinctively pushes them both up into the air like a spire.

“Imaginative. Maybe… maybe hasn’t been touched like he should be.”

Jerry’s still so embarrassed, but he’s too curious not to ask,

“What ‘should be’?”

“Deserves.” Dean says, without hesitation. “Needs.”

“Oh.”

Dean’s really scrutinising him now. Jerry scrabbles around inside his head, trying to find some words to force out of his dry mouth. _Please God_, he thinks, _give me something to say_. He notices Dean’s gaze drop to somewhere in the region of his collarbones. Dean’s head tilts a little to one side and his eyes narrow slightly.

“What’s this?” He reaches out and hooks one finger under the silver chain glittering around Jerry’s neck, drawing the pendant slowly out of his shirt.

“That's… not what it looks like.”

“It looks like my St Christopher…”

“… and it is. It, er, definitely is but I promise I wasn’t taking it or anything. Honest, Dean.”

Dean’s big hand cups the side of his face just for a second.

“I didn’t think you were _taking_ it, Jer. C’mon, that’s crazy talk. You can wear it, of course you can. By why did you want to?”

“I thought….” Aw, shit. His brain’s still pretty scrambled, but even in this state he knows that his reason sounds kind of silly. Still, one of the benefits of spending half your life acting like a moron is that no one really questions it when you say something honestly ridiculous; it’s just business as usual. 

“I thought I could protect you by wearing it,” he says, looking Dean dead in the eye and waving goodbye to the last of his pride. Everything falls out in a rush after that.

“You normally never go anywhere without it and I know it means a lot to you and so I was worried and I didn’t want anything bad to happen to you so I put it on because I thought that way it would still protect you kind of through me because I wanted to look after you and I thought it might work like that because I’m…. Because I’m your partner,” he finishes, a bit weakly.

Dean’s just looking at him. Steady, inscrutable; hands folded calmly in his lap. He stays that way for a few long, long moments, apparently deep in thought. Finally, he comes back to life. He gestures towards the nightstand.

“Hand me that, will you Jer?”

Jerry’s confused. He wants the empty cup? The broken watch? He scans over the cluttered surface, panicking slightly. Then it hits him. The little heap of gold. His own necklace, with the Mogen Dovid pendant. But no, surely Dean…

“This?”

“Only if you don’t mind.”

Jerry does not mind. He shakes his head. 

“Would you, uh, would you do the honors?:

Dean bends his head forward and Jerry hopes he can’t feel his hands trembling as he loops the gold chain around his neck and fumbles with its delicate clasp. He finally manages to get it secured and lets it drop into place. 

That done, he begins to pull away but he doesn’t get far before he feels Dean’s hands come up and grip his hips, gently coaxing him closer instead. His brain is short-circuiting like crazy but there isn’t even a square inch of him that wants to resist. So, he shuffles forward on his bare knees and lets his arms fall around Dean’s shoulders just as Dean’s arms slide around his waist and draw him closer still, into a warm hug. 

In his kneeling position he’s a little higher up, so he lets Dean nuzzle into _his_ neck for a change, while he rests his cheek on top of his partner’s curly head and wraps his arms tightly around him. Dean’s low, contented hum tickles his throat. He presses his soft mouth to the silver chain where it lies against Jerry’s pulse.

“Now I guess we’ll be looking after each other, huh. Is that how it works, Jer?”

“That’s right Paul.”

“And that’s a promise now, okay?”

“Okay Paul.”

Dean raises his head a little and Jerry smiles down at him.

“Good.” Dean says, returning the smile. After just a second his expression changes, and he wrinkles his nose.

“Jeez, I just caught a sniff of myself. Shouldn’t be getting so close when I’ve been running all around town and not even showered yet. Sorry Jer, that’s gross.” He gently disentangles his limbs from Jerry’s and draws away off the bed. Jerry feels all at sea for a second, marvelling at how quickly he’d got used to being anchored to Dean. It wasn’t bothering him at all, he thinks Dean smells delicious. But he guesses cigarettes and sweat aren’t exactly a traditional perfume.

Dean walks over to their clunky old radiator and grabs the towel that’s hanging on it, draping it over his arm. He turns for the bathroom, but stops suddenly in his tracks and snaps his fingers.

“Nearly forgot,” he says. He heads over to the small chair near the window which has Jerry’s jacket hung over the back of it, and starts rifling through the pockets.

“Hey,” Jerry looks at him quizzically. He points to Dean’s jacket hanging on the bedpost. “Yours is over here.”

“I know, “ Dean replies, still searching. “Aha!”

He pulls Jerry’s pack of cigarettes out victoriously and flips it open. Jerry’s puzzled: Dean doesn’t even like Camels. He watches as Dean goes back to rifling through the jacket.

“Where’s your lighter, Jer?”

“In your pocket.’

Dean frowns and reaches into the right-hand pocket of his own pants.

“Oh yeah.”

He slips one of the cigarettes into his mouth, deftly lights it and takes a big drag. He pulls a face.

“I don’t know why you bother smoking these,” he says coming back over to the bed. “It’s like trying to get drunk sucking a bar towel.”

“I like ‘em, they’re what my dad sm… oh. Thanks.” Dean’s standing at the side of the bed now, holding out the cigarette he just lit. Jerry takes it. His first cigarette of the day.

“Did you think I forgot?” Dean asks.

“I didn’t think you knew, even.”

Dean sticks his hands in his pockets and smiles at him so fondly it makes Jerry melt all over again.

“You ain’t so slick. I can tell you got showbusiness in your blood Mr Loomis,” he says. “You’re the most superstitious person I ever met.” He flips the towel over his shoulder and heads into the bathroom. “I won’t be long. Then we’ll go get something to eat, huh?”

“Okay Paul,” Jerry says as the bathroom door closes. He stares after his partner for a second, feeling even more in trouble than ever. He hadn’t thought that was possible, but here we are. He figures he ought to get dressed. Will Dean mind if he keeps the green shirt on? _No_, says a seductive little voice in his head. _You know now that he won’t mind. You can wear his clothes and keep his talisman and stroke his hair and touch his skin and he doesn’t mind. He might even like it._ What to do with that.

Jerry swings his legs over the side of the bed and goes to stand up, but his attention is caught by a little piece of pale blue paper lying forgotten on the carpet. Well now, that certainly wasn’t there last night. He picks it up and examines it. The paper is soft; it’s some kind of napkin. There’s a handwritten list on one folded side in writing much smaller than his own, and much messier than Dean’s. 

‘1) ARNICA’, it says. Then ‘2) COTTON (LOTS)’ and ‘3) ANACIN’. _This is Dean’s nurse friend_, he thinks, glancing a little guiltily at the closed bathroom door. Number four on the list is hard to read, like maybe something happened while she was writing it. He can make out ‘4)’, then ‘A SLOW’, then maybe ‘DEEP’, does that say deep? The rest just looks like a scribble with a long pencil tail trailing off it into nothing. Weird. Doesn’t really go with the rest of the list. ‘A slow, deep’ what?

He turns the napkin over. Aha! Printed there in a darker shade of blue he sees ‘Club 181: New York’s Most Unique Nite Spot’. Club 181? Jerry thought knew most every club in the city, but he’s never heard of Club 181. Maybe it’s new? No, he definitely would have noticed if a new club had opened, it would’ve been all over the trades. Hmmm. ‘2nd Ave. & 12th, it says.

He should give the napkin back to Dean, or at least leave it somewhere where he can find it and take it back. What he definitely _shouldn’t_ do is hide it in his shaving kit. He definitely shouldn’t wait until he has a few hours to himself and take the subway downtown. He definitely shouldn’t go to the corner of 2nd Avenue and 12th and he definitely shouldn’t try to see this mysterious club for himself. He definitely shouldn’t go inside. And he definitely shouldn’t try to find out what connects it to Dean.

Who’s he kidding.

First chance he gets, he’s absolutely going to Club 181.

**Author's Note:**

> Here's the Billie Holiday song the title comes from: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=_mitLcbHHz8


End file.
